


Our Stories Aren't That Different

by solversonlou



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: Frottage, M/M, Mentioned one sided Tyrell/Elliot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-30
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2019-01-26 17:58:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12563000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solversonlou/pseuds/solversonlou
Summary: "Alderson," Irving's lips somehow smack together despite the lack of 'p' sounds, loud enough for the sound to grate on Tyrell, who doesn't look too happy for Irving to mention the hacker's name at all. Exhaling through his nose, Irving steps closer to Tyrell, throws him a sympathetic bone in the form of a confession. "Y'know, I had an unrequited love myself once."Based on S3E04's trailer where Robot/Elliot 'breaks up' with Tyrell. Irving comforts Tyrell with his words of wisdom and a warm body.





	Our Stories Aren't That Different

Tyrell has been pacing about the joint like a kicked puppy dog for at least an hour and a half now, and Irving has quite frankly grown tired by his sad display. 

"Hey," Irving's mouth presses into a straight line, his eyebrows stitched together as he looks the Swede once over, taking in the tense line of his shoulders and the tears that seem to always be staining his cheeks. The guy's as mad as a box of frogs and Irving is somehow still not entirely used to it. 

Gestuing with curled fingers, Irving signals Tyrell over to him, watching as he shuffles on his feet like a toddler that's just been told he can't have his favourite stuffed toy anymore, "Tell me, Wellick, is it really worth crying over this guy?"

Tyrell sniffs, his irritated gaze lifting to meet Irving's eye, like he's mad that Irving would dare speak to him at a time like this. Scrubbing the tears on his cheek with the back of his shirt sleeve, Tyrell's voice is tinged with bitterness as he speaks, "What are you talking about?"

"Alderson," Irving's lips somehow smack together despite the lack of 'p' sounds, loud enough for the sound to grate on Tyrell, who doesn't look too happy for Irving to mention the hacker's name at all. Exhaling through his nose, Irving steps closer to Tyrell, throws him a sympathetic bone in the form of a confession. "Y'know, I had an unrequited love myself once."

Tyrell's brow furrows at Irving's words, his mouth curving into a small frown. It's as if he's sad about Irving catching him out, like no one else could see how bad he had it for Elliot, like it wasn't the most obvious thing in the world. His gaze shifts to the ground, that twinge of shame that constantly resides in his gut pulsing through him.

"Drove me crazy," Irving continues, a wistful reminiscence to his voice as he looks the Swede over. Without reluctance, he presses the tip of his finger to Tyrell's stomach, drags it slowly up his torso before placing a broad palm against his chest. 

Tyrell almost jumps out of his skin at the sudden contact, wide eyes shooting up to look at Irving, an unanswered question on his lips. 

"He was a real fancy businessman, some Don Draper type, like he was still stuck in the sixties, despite it being nineteen nighty four," Irving's description and choice of pronouns stir something inside of Tyrell, heat creeping across his face as he listens to what he has to say. "Kinda like yourself, only... older. I was just a kid, twenty three tops."

Swallowing around the hard lump in his throat, Tyrell's gaze drops to the curve of Irving's mouth as it curls into the faintest hint of a melancholy smile. 

"Guy wasn't interested, though," Irving says, like he's telling the end to a story. "Had a wife and kids. Should have known, really."

Tyrell frowns as he recalls the story Irving had told him before, back at the cabin. Inhaling, his chest moves with the hand that's pressed against it, not pulling away, "So do you."

Irving tilts his head from side to side, lips quirked down at the corners with his eyebrows raised, like he's weighting Tyrell's words in his mind, "Eh, no offence, Tyrell... but so do, or rather did you."

The lump in Tyrell's throat tightens, throbs as he exhales, the reminder of Joanna and his son like a knife twisting in an old wound. He pulls away from Irving's touch, the shame in his gut pulsing through him again, skin burning hot. He can't think about Joanna and the baby in correlation to his feelings about Elliot. They're separate things, haphazardly compartmentalised in the corrupted hard drive of his mind. 

"Look, I uh," Irving watches the Swede cross the basement and settle onto his rickety bed, observing as Tyrell rings his fingers together and stares at the concrete ground. "I gotta go to work, but try not to beat yourself up too much. You're a good looking guy, Tyrell. Kid doesn't know what he's missing."

Tyrell doesn't look up as Irving leaves, just presses his thumbnail into the muscle of his palm, tries to ground himself as the sound of the hatch closing echoes above him.

\- - - 

"What you said before," Tyrell interrupts Irving's train of though, something Irving isn't necessarily opposed to as he's been somewhat bored without the presence of Elliot and the big eyed girl he's nicknamed Angel Cake out of habit. "Was any of it real?"

Tyrell is looking straight at Irving with such a serious, hardened expression that Irving wonders if he's going to throw his metaphorical toys out of the pram again. Irving could deal with that, he supposes, he just isn't really in the mood to play the part of a parent trying to calm down their screaming toddler right now. 

Irving exhales as he twists in the swivel chair he's currently straddling, faces Tyrell who's sat on his rickety bed with his laptop perched on his knees. The screensaver has been bouncing around the screen for at least fifteen minutes now, Tyrell seemingly distracted by his own thoughts. 

Irving tilts his head, gives the Swede a once over, "You're gonna have to be a little more specific, pal. I'm a man of many words, and whilst I have a near flawless memory of said words, I unfortunately do not posses the power of telepathy."

"It has become very clear to me that your supposed wife and kids do not exist," Tyrell cuts straight to the point, unimpressed by Irving's penchant for skirting around his words. The tone of Tyrell's voice reminds Irving of when he'd recited that bible verse to him, back in the cabin in the forest, and it intrigues him just as much as it did the first time. "What else did you lie about to manipulate me?"

Irving holds up his hands in protest, letting out a small chuckle as the chair rolls out from under him and he stands up, "Woah, easy there, Tyrell. You can't just throw out accusations like that like it's nothing."

Tyrell's eyes follow Irving as he steps closer, shoulders tensing as Irving stops before him, hands dug into his pockets. Tyrell doesn't want to hear his excuses, his jaw set in a hardened line, looking up from beneath his brow as he asks, voice low, "Do you find me attractive?"

Irving wasn't entirely expecting that. His head cocks to the side, lips parting as he searches for an answer. He studies Tyrell, eyes flickering over him, sat on his bed with his fists balled up on his knees, the long line of his neck exposed where he'd loosened the tie around his open collar. Inhaling sharply, his mind returns to Tyrell in the forest, shirtless with sweat collecting around the back of his neck. Eyes sliding shut, he sighs, "Yes..."

When he opens his eyes again, Tyrell is on his feet, face softer, as if the rage in him had temporarily subsided, making way for a more relaxed view. It reminds Irving of the days in the cabin when Tyrell would let him work his hands into the meat of his shoulders as Irving recalled tales of his 'family' and Tyrell worked, a few stray, contented groans leaving him.

Irving feels warm fingertips press against his wrist, guiding his hand out of his pocket and bringing it up to Tyrell's face. He watches with eyebrows raised as Tyrell splays open Irving's fingers and presses his lips to the inside of his palm, blonde lashes closing against his cheeks.

Tyrell presses his cheek into Irving's hand and Irving's immediate response is to stroke a calloused thumb across his bottom lip. 

Letting out a small sigh of a chuckle, Irving tries to make sense of it, "What is this, a Jane Austen novel?"

Tyrell's breath hits Irving's wrist as he lifts his head, his left hand moving to fit around Irving's waist, drawing his body closer, their lips mere inches apart as he speaks, "You talk too much. It's unattractive."

"Y'know, you say that," Irving says, his broad palms sliding down Tyrell's biceps before settling upon his hips. "But your actions are kinda giving me different signals here."

"Shut up," Tyrell's mumble is lost against Irving's lips as he bridges the gap between them, pressing their mouths together in a way that's so much heavier than Irving had been expecting.

Irving's hand braces itself on Tyrell's jaw as the Swede kisses him like he's starved for it. It's as if the man hasn't been kissed or touched in years, and Irving can't honestly say he doesn't feel the same way, lips parting to welcome the warm press of Tyrell's tongue.

It transitions quickly from the moment Tyrell kisses him, Irving's fingers scrambling for Tyrell's belt, tugging it off as they move towards the bed, Tyrell sinking down onto it as Irving hovers above him.

Irving hasn't done this in Christ know's how long, but that thought doesn't much occur to him when he feels the scrape of concrete against his knees through his grey-silver slacks. He watches Tyrell's jaw go loose when he sinks his mouth over him, revels in the groan that leaves the back of his throat, not dissimilar to the ones that would leave him when Irving was giving him those apparently less than platonic back massages all those months ago.

The warm, heavy weight of Irving above him should be suffocating, but Tyrell seems to be drunk off it, already wanting from the slick heat of the American's mouth.

The bed is far too small for what they both desire, and Irving makes a mental note to buy a bigger one, or to bring Tyrell back to his own grubby apartment next time, so he can open him up and give him exactly what he needs. Maybe Tyrell will let him be more verbal.

Tyrell gets a hand around the both of them, grunts into the damp heat of Irving's neck, inhaling the scene of sweat and an Italian aftershave he would usually find cheap, but seems to find intoxicating on the man above him.

Irving's palms map across Tyrell's bare torso, both their shirts long abandoned on the ground, along with every other item of clothing aside from the watch on Irving's wrist. 

Tyrell is somewhat taken aback by how toned Irving is, the line of his hips cutting deeper than his own as he rolls down against him, the warm weight of their cocks sliding together in Tyrell's spit slicked grip.

Irving isn't exactly expecting Tyrell to cry, but he can't say it's surprising when he notices the tears that stain his cheeks. For a man that's murdered a woman with his bare hands, Tyrell Wellick is an absolute emotional wreck of human being. 

Tyrell comes first, because _of course he does_ , teeth scraping Irving's bottom lip as he releases between them. 

"That's it," Irving can't keep the silent act up, his voice deep and encouraging, sending warm shivers through Tyrell, who whimpers at the sound of it. 

Eyes screwed shut, Irving follows shortly after, spilling onto Tyrell's stomach, mouth pressed to his throat as he grunts.

\- - -

"What am I going to do?" Tyrell asks, temple resting against Irving's chest as they lay together on the bed that isn't made to contain two full grown men.

Irving blinks up at the ceiling, the sight of it a blur without his glasses that are sat assumedly somewhere atop his suit on the floor, "I'll talk to the kid, maybe give Angel Cake a call. They'll see they need you."

Tyrell's fingers curl into the scratchy sheets that lay across their torsos, his brow furrowed, lost in his own over analysing mind again, "What happened tonight..."

"Yeah, I know," Irving sighs, eyes sliding shut as he shifts on the mattress, Tyrell's elbow pressing into his rib cage as he moves. "Don't worry, I won't be blabbering to Whiterose about our canoodling. Not that she'd even care. She's got bigger fish to fry, mainly keeping Elliot under control."

"I meant..." Tyrell begins to speak, but he's interrupted by Irving again. 

"Yeah, yeah, it won't happen again," Irving shifts to sit up on his elbows a little, chin tilting to look at the Swede, who looks up at him with his eyebrows knitted together. "Look, Tyrell. You don't have to worry. It was a one time thing. I get it."

Tyrell swallows, jaw set in a tight line as props himself up, meets Irving's eye with a serious gaze, "What if I wanted it to happen again?"

The silence that follows isn't a long one, but it sure feels like one as Irving blinks at the man. His lips tug down at the corners and he nods as if it actually took him more than a fraction of a second to make up his mind, "Yeah... I wouldn't be opposed to that arrangement."

Gesturing between the two of them with his hands, Irving is cut off by Tyrell's lips, pressed against the corner of his mouth. He welcomes it. Not a lot of people can shut him up, but Tyrell seems to have a knack for it.

Irving isn't complaining.

**Author's Note:**

> I just gotta give a shout out to @earlylight's fic for inspiring the shoulder massages in the cabin part of this fic. I like to think Irving was giving Tyrell back rubs for motivation and relaxation all that time.
> 
> I'm in Tyrving hell.


End file.
